


Sinister Kindred

by Hobbitrocious



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: BDSM, Belly Expansion, Belly Kink, Bondage, Captivity, Dubious Consent, Human Experimentation, M/M, Mad Science, Medical Experimentation, Medical Inaccuracies, Medical Kink, Navel Fetish, Navel Torture, Nudity, S&M, Subspace, twist ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 15:05:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8061118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hobbitrocious/pseuds/Hobbitrocious
Summary: A very alternate take on the Meinhard compound surgical room scene. Moriarty decides to be creative with his torture and uses Holmes as a science experiment... and is surprised to find that Holmes actually enjoys the proceedings.Warning: slightly graphic in the torture department.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Update on other fics: pre-2016 WIPs are still on hold for a while. I still don't have a new PC. I *have*, however, found a way to sloooooowly wrench my Windows-originated files into a readable display in Ubuntu. Unfortunately it's Reformatting Hell, so I've made very little progress for all the time put into it thus far. Still working on getting just one file completely decoded, since I started with the longest fic.
> 
> Thankfully, this is one of the stories I had in HTML format from my old personal archive, so I was able to open it straight into the browser with no problems and copy-paste. Enjoy. (Or, alternatively, steer clear if the story sounds too freakish for you. READ ALL TAGS FIRST. You've been warned!)
> 
> I think this was also unconsciously an homage to the wonderful dynamic between Rathbone's Holmes and Atwill's Moriarty in 'Secret Weapon', aka 'Sherlock Holmes and the Slash Goggles'.
> 
> Heads up: This story has not been edited since 2011/2012 and may contain ridiculous flubs. I'm pretty sure I went back and fixed the worst of the anachronisms, (which was a PLASTIC drip bag, of which I remain very ashamed,) but I may have missed some spots. All crappy writing techniques are mine; the characters are not.
> 
> Do not try this at home unless you aspire to a Darwin Award.  
> __
> 
> Original Author's Note from 2011:  
> 'My first SH fic written after seeing "SH2: A Game of Shadows", a movie which can be summed up in one word - and that word is "Cocktease." Was anyone else disappointed when the whole "Prepare the operating theatre"/"I'll go find a doctor" part didn't follow through?'

"Looks like I'll have to operate," Holmes heard the Professor say.

Holmes blinked blearily and came to full consciousness on the steel table bolted to the floor of the operating theatre. Flat on his back, Holmes was strapped to it at the ankles and wrists, each thigh, his hips, ribcage, and shoulders. Covering all this, yet not shielding him from the chill of the room, was a crisp, white surgical sheet. Beneath it all, someone had made sure Holmes was quite naked.

Clear, measured footsteps on the concrete floor, and Holmes could see Moriarty staring back down at him.

"I haven't much practical medical experience," the professor admitted quietly, leaning in, "but I've done some dabbling in the sciences. Perhaps not as much, chemically, as you have. Nevertheless, there is time to practise." His gaze roved with intent, as though Holmes were a prize pig Moriarty planned to cook and serve. "... I believe now is that time."

Moriarty drew the surgical sheet down so that everything was exposed save Holmes' most private bits. Even with the flimsy modicum of security from the cloth, Holmes felt vulnerable, uncomfortably on display. Holmes' body was laid out for Moriarty to examine at will; to observe, to touch, to explore and experiment on.

Moriarty rubbed Holmes' belly - it was well bloated now that Holmes had been under Watson's watchful eye again and forced to eat; tight and round and sticking out past its normal size. Each of Holmes' inhales pushed his stomach outward, pressed it up into the Professor's palm.

Something in Holmes, something more than the knowledge there was no immediate escape, kept him still and silent. For all the times he'd been forcibly restrained in his colourful career, this was new. Without the pressing need to dodge knives or blows, his curiosity had ample time to become piqued. The warm hand palpating his middle, then carefully prodding his shallow belly button, added a fresh dimension to an old game as well. Holmes usually wasn't manhandled so gently, or so attentively.

Nor was he handled this intimately, Irene's crafty gropes and rendezvous of dubious consent notwithstanding. Not another soul had opportunity, to this point in time, to discover many of Holmes' erogenous flip-switches. By design or, more likely, happenstance, James Moriarty just had.

Try as Holmes did to let no sign of its effect show, Moriarty paused all the same. Holmes held his breath.

One finger drove in suddenly - hard, fast - and held down against the nub of Holmes' navel. The fingertip, pressed hard enough that Holmes could make out the short fingernail jabbing and leaving its mark, rubbed mercilessly and methodically around the inside.

Holmes felt himself flush, couldn't help it. His resolve to appear as though he was focused on the far-away ceiling left him; driven by a fearsomely primal urge, Holmes strained to catch a glimpse of Moriarty finger-fucking Holmes' own belly button.

A quick look at the plunging digit disappearing into his own flesh, and he let his aching head fall back. He finally dared to look up at the man himself. Moriarty sensed Holmes' stare, they locked eyes.

Moriarty swallowed thickly and told Holmes, "This is a surprise. I didn't expect you to be so cooperative. You can't help yourself, though, can you..." He rambled, as sort of an afterthought, "I think you'll remember this day fondly for the rest of the time I allow you to live."

The Professor stepped away from the table and crossed to an instrument cart, the contents of which were just out of Holmes' view.

"Yes, yes..." Moriarty turned his back and muttered to himself. It sounded of a man regrouping for the sake of his self-control.

Meekly, and knowing full well why _that_ was, Holmes replied, "You had me at leather straps and buckles."

Holmes knew Moriarty wouldn't mistake that for anything but the new game they'd entered into. Despite the state of international affairs, despite all the imminent dangers, Holmes found himself hoping, desperately, that Moriarty would play on this smaller board with him.

_Use me, hurt me, violate me - but please, whatever you do, make a show of it._

Moriarty's showmanship may not have been as honed as the detective's, but a man of his genius could certainly make do.

The Professor returned, holding a metallic device which sported a thin, pointed tip, and said, rather congenially, "Then I promise to make this last."

_Oh, thank heavens, yes, please, more, *now*._

The game was afoot.

Clinically, Professor Moriarty reached his empty hand to tuck Holmes' half-grown, virtually twitching erection out of the way beneath the sheet. Then, without anything in the way of explanation of his plans, he used his thumb and forefinger to try and spread Holmes' navel. He peered inside for a moment, calculating, then let go and brought the surgical lamp closer down. Its light glared off Holmes' skin but illuminated every crevice in the delicate wrinkles that made up his umbilicus.

The cold instrument’s tip felt like the nib of a pen poking around the bottom of Holmes’ navel.

Moriarty was probing different spots, studying Holmes’ reaction to each pinprick of a poke. Finally, the Professor touched a point that made Holmes draw a sharp gasp. That one spot, the most sensitive of all, felt like Holmes’ very centre.

Grinning with eminent satisfaction, Moriarty adjusted his grip on the device and applied pressure. He guided the thin rod tip inward, slowly working past the resistance from Holmes’ tough, long-healed umbilical scar.

Holmes felt the tight, tiny untwist of his skin parting, a channel opening. Thick, heady pleasure buzzed right there, inside his navel, shooting outward through his gut as the pressure behind the instrument forced his belly button to open. Holmes' eyes glazed over, his lips parted wetly, and he mouthed a soft exclamation of " _Oh._ " His grasp of the here-and-now became muzzy as the tingling, like powerful lightning strikes on a minute scale, turned to mushrooming, blossoming billows of euphoria that washed over his senses. Leather creaked, but held fast, as he balled his hands into tight fists and futilely attempted to draw his knees up.

It wasn't until the tip of Moriarty's instrument reached the deep knot, behind the intricate folds, that Holmes realised he hadn't yet been penetrated near as deeply as he had thought. Size and length had no meaning; the metal inside him had a diameter of no more than a millimetre or two and an eventual length of only a few inches, but Holmes could feel it much, much further than it reached.

Then Moriarty increased the pressure, driving into the knot. Holmes’ body did not want to give, and Moriarty resorted to a process of drawing out a little, changing his angle, and pressing back in again to find the weakest point. Holmes’ skin tried to follow the rod as it plunged in and out, wrapped around the metal as though it were a part of him now.

Holmes thought he would go mad, permanently insane, from the stimulation until a tight burn intruded and made the invasion less pleasurable. His penis wilted a fraction, even as he acknowledged that Moriarty had just achieved full penetration through the muscle wall. Holmes was skewered through the middle, opened up, ready and prepped for whatever medical experiment was about to take place; tied up so all he could do was wait for it.

The motion of Moriarty unclamping the bulk of the instrument from the hollow rod vibrated through Holmes’ abdomen.

Moriarty stepped away again to switch out the device for something else, and Holmes lifted his head to see the end of the rod sticking out of his gut move with his every breath.

The next Holmes knew, another folded sheet was being slid beneath his head.

“Please, do observe my work,” Moriarty invited him. The Professor fussed with him until Holmes had enough of an incline that he could rest his neck and still watch.

Wheels squeaked, and an intravenous drip pole rolled into view. The glass cylinder that hung from the hook was especially large and filled with misty, amber fluid.

“The compound I am testing,“ Moriarty spoke as he retrieved a length of tubing from the cart and attached it to the nozzle embedded in Holmes, “is powerful in its own right, but stomach acids nullify it. Administering it in an enema is only minimally effective.”

The other end of the transparent tube got secured to the inverted glass container, connecting Holmes to the source of the drug.

Moriarty went on to explain, “It needs to be introduced to the intestine to maximise absorption. You should begin to feel its hallucinogenic effects within minutes.” He turned a wingnut screw, and the amber liquid crawled down the tube. Moriarty went to Holmes’ side then and gently brushed the detective’s hair back as he whispered to him.

“You will hold it inside of you for two days, and then I will extract the residue. What will come out is a substance very useful to my research. And, if you produce a viable sample for me, I shall continue to use you for this purpose as long as this experiment needs. You see why it is especially fortunate - for you - that you enjoy the procedure.”

Holmes moaned in response. The substance in the tube had reached his navel and was now slowly secreting into him. He watched, breathless and dizzy, as his own belly gradually swelled. Within minutes, he felt as though he’d eaten a seven-course meal. As the bag drained into him, the slight shifts of the metal nozzle were his reward for not struggling.

Then he decided to struggle, flexing his muscles, against the cramps forming, to move the nozzle around deliberately. When he stopped, Moriarty was left licking his lips over a shivering, barely-conscious Holmes. The sheet across Holmes’ hips was soaked through.

By the time the cylinder was empty, Holmes was incoherent and looked seven months pregnant, or simply ready to pop.

Moriarty took hold of the metal and gingerly slid the umbilical tube out of Holmes. The knot in the man’s skin still tried to turn inside out with the pull of the nozzle rod, and Moriarty had to pull slowly. Holmes twitched and mumbled beneath him.

Holmes’ core was being tugged again and again, and it felt marvellous. When it stopped, as the rod pulled free, it left his belly hole feeling stretched and sore - which Holmes could also enjoy.

Before the pressure in Holmes’ distended belly caused any of the fluid to escape, Moriarty quickly lit a candle and dripped hot, white wax into the spot to seal Holmes’ navel.

Holmes hissed, his midsection jumped.

After inspecting the cooled wax and covering Holmes from chin to toe with a clean sheet, Moriarty powered down the electric lights in the room. Taking the lone candle with him, he locked Holmes safely away in the operating room.

“Two days, Holmes,” he reminded before he shut and bolted the heavy door.

To the empty dark, Holmes whimpered, “Promise?”

Mary sat gawking at the pages last pulled from her husband’s typewriter, not knowing what to think. She sat like that until his footsteps coming down the hall moved her to scramble out from his seat. She picked up the tea tray she’d entered with and hoped she managed not to look too guilty.

Watson greeted her with a smile and tugged her shoulders for a happy kiss. Mary obliged, then stood and watched her husband sit at the desk.

Watson didn’t quite notice Mary’s nervous hovering.

“You’ve been reading my writing again,” he accused fondly after a moment.

Mary looked at him sharply. “How did you know?” she asked. Her knuckles went white around the tea tray.

“Simple,” John explained, still all cheer, “the chair’s still warm.”

“Oh,” Mary nodded sheepishly.

Watson poised his hands over the keys, ready to get back at it. “Now,” he said, “once this next chapter is--”

His aghast stare into the page gave Mary some relief; it seemed John hadn’t written the dreadful story at all. He looked up at her. She looked patiently back at him, and he continued to read.

“I....” Watson was nearly at a loss for words by the time he was through. “This is... Mary, did you write this?” Bewildered, he turned wide eyes to his wife.

“No, I thought you had.” She answered and fiddled with the lid of the teapot.

John sank back in his chair and let out a long breath through his nose. It was impossible, but then...

“That perverted, deplorable bastard.” Watson levered himself out of the seat and strode to the coat rack. A visit to Mycroft felt in order.

Mary recognised that particular tone, if not the names. “You mean Mr. Holmes is alive?” she exclaimed.

“Yes!” Watson’s mind reeled. “And... and...” He got a good look at his desk. There was a pencil that had been whittled and sanded to a blunt end, and a strange curl to some of the papers as though they’d been wiped with a damp cloth and left to dry.

“... and I do believe I’m going to kill him once I find him,” Watson finished and set his jaw.

Mary followed his infuriated gaze to the normal-looking desk.

“In his defence, it _is_ just a story, John.”

_~fin~_

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are my lifeblood.


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